


Violet's First Birthday

by TheCourtJester485



Series: The Auto-Memory Doll: Journey's & Accounts [1]
Category: Violet Evergarden (Anime)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Canon, Childhood Memories, Emotional, Emotional Baggage, Family Dynamics, Fanon, Gen, Gilbert cares for Violet, Manga & Anime, Violet Evergarden & Major Gilbert, Violet Evergarden (Anime) - Freeform, Violet Evergarden is given a birthday, Violet's memories of the Major, auto memory doll, mentions of the war
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-08-12
Updated: 2020-08-12
Packaged: 2021-03-05 20:01:50
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,977
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/25861000
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/TheCourtJester485/pseuds/TheCourtJester485
Summary: Returning from an assignment at Evergarden Manor, Violet regains something long thought lost to her past.
Relationships: Gilbert Bougainvillea/Violet Evergarden, Gilbert Bougainvillia & Dietfried Bougainvillia, Violet Evergarden & Gilbert Bougainvillea
Series: The Auto-Memory Doll: Journey's & Accounts [1]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/1889560
Kudos: 42





	Violet's First Birthday

Closing the door with a subtle click, Violet sets down the suitcase carrying her typewriter beside the desk overlooking her bedroom window. Slipping out of her boots she wiggles her toes, the heels of her feet worn by years of running and climbing during the war. As it turns out, her assignment to write for the Madam at Evergarden Manor wasn’t the sole reason for her summoning. It certainly explains Violet being requested so specifically.

Once having completed her task, she was preparing to leave: packing away the typewriter and re-covering her mechanical hands. Then upon walking out the door, she stopped to bow. Before she could depart, the Madam presented her with an envelope. The item held out to her bared no insignia to speak of; merely a plain crimson wax seal withholding it’s contents from view. No questions passed her lips, instead giving an expressionless nod prior to going on her way.

Changing out the beautiful frill clad uniform for a cream night gown, the coloured needlework matches that of her name. The girl tugs at the ribbons holding up the buns in her hair, freeing them to allow the braids to befall onto her pale shoulders, then undoing them; the wavy locks of white gold near glowing in the light of the bedside oil lamp. Hanging the dress, she retrieves the unmarked envelope from the jacket breast pocket.

Centring herself on the bed she hugs her raised knees while examining the envelope. _This is the second letter given to me,_ she flips it over, _hmm..._ _strange._ _The_ _re’s_ _n_ _o name or initials._ The rotating gears in her fingers work to pull out the paper inside with multiple clinks and clunks. Her breath hitches, coupling with widened, disbelieving eyes.

The photograph in her hands reduces her to that of a statue, although that’s easily done; people occasionally mistake her for one at times courtesy of her perfectly unwavering posture and lacking mannerisms or ticks. Forever immortalised on paper is the delicate smile of Major Gilbert Bougainvillea; his piercing eyes of emeralds leave her transfixed on the print, afraid it’ll disappear if she were to blink. It was taken exactly four years ago, she remembers it as clearly as the war itself. Even after _everything_ else she’s experienced, how would she not? At the time, she was still unquestioning of her role in the war, and all else besides combat was deemed unimportant. Curling onto her side, Violet’s attention doesn’t falter–rather, the memory of that night plays in her head for the first time in years.

***

A knock at the girl’s door coalesces with the pounding rain outside the attic window, she hears it regardless, yet ignores it. Uncaring whether or not it's the Madam or one of the maids she doesn’t stand from her repose on the windowsill, instead continuing to observe the darkened view of the garden in a manor some would consider unnerving given her stillness: the cook back at the military outpost even compared her to a plank of _wood_ stuck in the soil.

“Violet? Violet, are you awake?” calls a muffled voice.

Her fingers clasp the gold trimmed brooch in her palm–for a moment she forgets to breathe.

The door opens, the crack of light invading across a sea of shadow; time seemingly slows, the moment of unknowing anticipation is... well, she doesn’t know... The empty thoughts occupying her damaged mind are quickly replaced by the newly spoken words; it’s low calmness, it’s tone… it’s _kindly_. At least, she believes that’s how one would describe it. Such an unfamiliar quality is only ever gifted from one person in particular: _Major Gilbert_. She knows no such thing from anyone else, nor did she prior to being drafted in his ranks.

The major is _kind_ to her.

“Vio–”

“Yes, Major!” she exclaims jumping to her bare feet, promptly saluting him.

The door opens fully with the suddenness of her reply causing him to hold. Seeing her stance, steadfast and serious, he breathes a sigh, “At ease.”

She does, though her back stays straight as if awaiting orders–she always is. Violet’s been his military ward for a great many seasons, though the exact number is uncertain to both at this point.

If he had to guess, he’d think it to be little over four years, thereabouts.

The wondrous blue marbles of her doll-like face never appear frightened or morose, or even sad; however, he’s never seen them gleeful either. He’s hopeful in his endeavours to change them in that regard, even for just a moment.

“Violet,” he says, “as you aren’t sleeping I would like for you to accompany me downstairs.”

From behind her lurks the beauty of this eves full moon; it’s light forming a ring around her head like an inverted halo either side of her straggly ponytail. In that instant, seeded regret stabs at his heart like a bayonet for the horrors she’s had to witness as a part of his unit since she was discovered at the island …

Especially the one’s _she’s_ been responsible for, both out there and on the front lines...

“Yes, Major. If that is your order.”

“It’s no order, but a request. Come, now.”

As asked, she tails him. Halfway down the stairs of the manor he explains he has a surprise for her in the dining room. When she doesn’t enquire as to what, his hands slot into his pockets before asking, “Have you ever celebrated your birthday?”

“Birthday?”

“Yes,” he says flatly, but not callous, “it’s an annual occasion to commemorate ones birth. In this case: yours.”

“No. It isn’t relevant to defeating the enemy in battle.”

The girl can’t help but be blunt for her tone rarely changes. Any response she provides is an honest one. And as per usual, the Major doesn’t doubt her comment to be true.

“Admittedly, myself and the others aren’t sure when your _actual_ birth was, so instead I selected the date you were brought under my care.”

“What–” she begins, cutting herself off.

His feet stop. Turning to her, he can’t refrain from the curious raise of his brow. She too stands a mere step behind him, “Please, do continue.”

“Nothing, Major.”

Gilbert’s heart turns heavy at the sight of her shining eyes lowered to the ground, perhaps lost in thought, a place she often wanders to. Once in the dining room, he instructs her to stand at the of the table and to look away, to which she obeys. A few moments pass: a second set of feet tread across the waxed floor, soon following a weighty sounding object being placed in front of her, the steps vanish, then the striking of a match.

“Alright,” Gilbert says, “you can look again.”

She doesn’t speak a word. Directly in front of her sits a large cake, the sponge is brown with a red, jelly like substance layered in the middle, what she guesses to be flour is peppering the surface and a ring of stripy white-gold candles. The following is written beautifully in the centre, the words lilac in colour;

_Happy 14 th_

_Birthday, Violet._

“This is… this is for...”

“Of course. Do you like it?”

“Although I am not accustomed to using the word, ‘like’, I assume it to be the correct response.”

“Excellent.” he half grins.

“May I ask a question, Major?” he nods, listening attentively, “Why have you done this? I don’t believe I am required to celebrate a birthday.”

His gaze grows weary, if it’s in sadness or disappointment she cannot say, “Because–the end of the war is soon upon us and–I didn’t wish for you to endure another battle without knowing what it’s like to experience what many other children your age do.”

“I, I think I understand.” naturally, Violet’s fingers still cradle the brooch in her palm. She never goes anywhere without it.

Gilbert hands her a small lilac box tied in midnight blue ribbon, asking her to open it. Inside sits a slender gold chain.

“Lend me your brooch for a moment,” receiving it, he attaches it to the chain before putting it around her neck; “there we are. Now whenever you can’t pin it to your clothes you can wear it as a necklace. Far less likely to misplace it when we travel that way.”

The girl stares at his benevolent face, scarred and grazed, giving a simple _thank you_ as he straightens again.

Gratitude isn’t something that she’s expressed before, he never believed she saw the reason behind it; he can’t help but be caught off-guard by such a simple thing many people, both soldier and civilian alike, said absent mindedly day by day without a second thought. The cold words of his brother emerge within the recesses of his mind, as they have countless times since they left his bitter tongue:

_Gil, she’s no child. She’s a weapon. Just a war tool…_

Dietfried is wrong.

He remembers the night he met Violet. The small scrawny thing hidden beneath a tattered cloth. How his brother called her _‘you’_ as he pushed her head toward the ground like she were no better than the mud on his boot. He’s never left him alone with her since in case he threw taunts in attempts to test her instincts of attacking a potential threat. Perhaps hoping she might snap for his own twisted amusement.

Dietfried is deeply wrong about her.

Beyond a shadow of a doubt, this girl isn’t _just a war tool_ to be used and thrown away when she’s no longer required.

He swears to turn the arrogance of his brother into something of understanding, or perhaps ashes should he continue to deny the humanity hidden inside her, no matter how far her emotions may be buried, they _are_ there. He knows in his core that they are. Nevertheless, he’ll deal with that after the final fight, but not now. There will be plenty of time after that.

Realizing how long they’ve been standing in soundless ambiance, he beckons the maid to call down the photographer he had travel from several towns away. Throughout the process, Violet remains wordless, though her eyes said much more than her voice ever could. Gilbert’s hand rests on her shoulder, the other back in his slacks pocket with a small, yet noticeable simper decorating his refined features.

The light washes over them with a short lived sound as the photograph is taken.

***

Turning over the picture the words from the cake are written in Gilbert’s hand. With tears in her eyes she clutches it to her chest, lips pursing together into a tight smile through burning cheeks. Truth be told, she never thought she’d see it again–not the photo necessarily, but the rare happiness of the Major looking as present as though he were still alive; despite the photo being devoid of colour, she can still see the everlasting beauty of his emerald iris’ looking back at her.

“Major… I miss you so much,” she whimpers, “this feeling–I’m happy–even though I cannot hear your voice, I can wake up and see your face again.” she curls into ball, her heart beating heavily in a swell of emotion, close to bursting, “I… I’m happy...”

The brooch rests on the pillow, lying directly in front of her sleeping face with the chain swirled around it; the photo never leaves her grip throughout the night. When she wakes the next morning her porcelain face feels warm to the touch where tears of unanticipated joy had streamed mere hours earlier.

Sitting up again, the room remains spotless. It won’t be long until Iris comes knocking bearing today’s requests. Before then however, the girl’s face shines sweetly as she glances down to her hand. A grateful warmth passes through her knowing that it wasn’t a dream.

“Good morning, Major.”

**Author's Note:**

> Thank you for reading! :-)


End file.
